


Chère Maman,

by desolesoleil



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming Out, Gen, Letter, Mental Illness, Reincarnation, Trans Enjolras, letter format
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-04-06 07:04:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14051574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desolesoleil/pseuds/desolesoleil
Summary: A letter from Enjolras to his mother, 185 years too late.





	Chère Maman,

Chère Maman,

 

I write to you now solely for myself. You will never see this. If you could, I would never write it.

 

I must be honest Maman- you are not who I thought this letter would be addressed to.

The last letter I wrote to you was dated 6 Juin, 1832. If it reached you, you will know that I am dead. You will know that I no longer have many people to write to.

I am not sorry for what I have done, but I am sorry for that letter, and have wondered in my sleep many times what its contents may have done to you. 

 

I hope you did as I asked in that letter. I hope that you thoroughly considered the options I presented, and that you thought of me in the decision you made.

 

I am 227 years old now according to the math I have done, soon to be 228.

 

I could not possibly begin to tell you anything of how this came to pass, even if I could find the words, I have no way of making you understand any of it. I hardly understand anything myself. I have been trying to find a way to phrase any of it correctly, anything at all, but everything I could say sounds  absolutely inconceivable.

I will tell you this much: the writing of this letter used no pen or ink; It was made on a machine of metal and glass, composed less like a letter on paper, and more like a song on the keys of a piano.

This machine is the now mundane miracle I live alongside everyday.

 

I have been here for one year. 

 

I am glad to assure you that I am not completely alone here. I have in my company both my dear friend whom you know as the son of Papa's colleague, M. Combeferre, and I am eternally grateful to remain with him. Also with me is another man you do not know, who has been no less impactful to my life. He is a kind hearted man with a great deal of contempt for humanity, and in spite of our many disagreements and fights, he is very dear to me. 

I have often imagined your disapproval of him. It is delicious.

 

I fear that the year in which I now reside will fill you with less horror than the country where that residence takes place. I now live in America.

I am very lucky to have also found a few others of my long dead friends, although they are far across the nation. America is vast. I believe the state where I now live (which will not be established for over 50 years after my death) is larger than France.

 

Grief is still private Maman. Even as I watch this world and myself grow increasingly more public, people are still people, and people are private. 

I believe I have been grieving this past year, for my friends, both the dead and those still living. They are long all long dead, but so are you and I Maman.

 

Truthfully, I do not think of you often, Papa either, but do not take that to mean that I do not mourn you. Every time I write, I hear your chiding to grow my letters up from the ground. I try not to hear Papa at all, for when I think of him it only ends in my frustration. It is frustration directed far more at myself than him, I am simply unable to understand what I feel and what I am supposed to feel, so I choose to ignore the feelings altogether.

 

I suppose have been grieving myself as well. I do not recommend it. I have been mourning my own martyrdom and bearing guilt I did not know possible. The only remarkable conclusion is that I've been feeling very sorry for myself, and have become quite pathetic.

I feel responsible for a lot of things, many of which were unavoidable. Perhaps I did not shoot my friends, but I did ask them to line up against the wall. 

 

I still see angels in my dreams, and in the wallpaper Maman. They still whisper to me things I cannot understand. 

When I was young you called it a blessing, but as soon as I began to disobey you it was no longer heaven-sent in your eyes. The Devil’s work. I thank God everyday Papa’s reputation was more important than the shame of an exorcist or asylum.

There are words for this now, and medications. I will not bother you with the names of either, it would be meaningless to you. 

 

I suppose this letter would be meaningless to you as well, written in a language you cannot speak and have had such disdain for. 

 

This letter has taken me months to write. I have too much to say, and the things I am too afraid to say are only outnumbered by the things I still cannot put into words. The hardest thing to say is something I could never have told you in that life. I nearly wrote it in my last letter, but I was still too afraid. 

You taught me that God does not make mistakes, and I believe that. God makes us as we are meant to be. 

 

Papa always wished I had been a boy. You did name me for him, did you not? I have a different name now. 

I was a troublesome girl. Loud. Angry. Rebellious. I took delight in being such a contrarian. Truthfully, the reason I never found a husband is that I could never be a wife.

 

God did not give you a daughter, Maman.

 

I miss you so much. I wish you could have learned the things I now know. I wish you could have loved me as I was. I am sure you did, in your own way. I can never know, so once again I must simply hope.

 

I seem to live on nothing but faith these days. Faith is difficult now. I have fought with God almost as often as I have fought with you. Everything I have done in my life and in my death has been founded in the belief that I am following the path He set for me, a path that I must find and forge myself. I struggle in this new and frightening world to still believe that He has set me on the right one. My friends help me believe that I am.

 

I wish you could have seen me succeed. I promise this time I will.

 

 

Sincerely,

Your son


End file.
